A Message in Las
by Dangsoo
Summary: Mangled hands are turning up all over London - one pair a day. John and Sherlock get onto the case after it suddenly becomes personal - a set of hands is found on Baker Street. Delving deeper, the two companions uncover a dark conspiracy, until the unthinkable happens - John is kidnapped, and the only clue Sherlock has is a broken lampshade and a single drop of blood. No JohnLock


A Message in Las

Chapter 1- 221B Baker Street

The chilly, bright morning sun shone a dusty beam of light through the half drawn curtains of the living room in 221B Baker Street, casting a harsh beam across the carpeted floor. It was calm and quiet in the room currently occupied by the World's only Consulting Detective, Sherlock Homes, and his greatest companion; Dr. John Watson, a retired army medic. John was settled in his usual armchair, the Union Flag cushion nestled into his lower back. He folded the newspaper he had just finished browsing with a rustle, and dropped it unceremoniously onto his lap. Reaching over to the coffee table, he retrieved his half drunk cup of tea and sipped it, glancing into the cold morning sky through the window. There were no clouds, just an expanse of harsh blue. Sherlock swished his silk dressing gown around himself as he stood and walked barefoot into the kitchen. He scooped the now empty cup of tea from John's hand as he passed and slid both onto the side by the kettle, before plopping two teabags into them and switching it on. Its bubbling roar began to crescendo as Sherlock sat himself down at the table strewn with various scientific paraphernalia and began to prepare a slide from a large clump of hair currently resting in the lid of a petri dish. The kettle clicked off, the steam rising high, and Sherlock promptly ignored it. Glancing over, John sighed, slung the paper onto the coffee table, and went to prepare the tea. He left a cup with Sherlock, before fetching his Laptop and reseating himself. He lifted the lid, and the familiar sound of fingers tapping across keys filled the space.

Sherlock reached for a pipette and a pair of scissors. He snipped off a few strands from the lump of dark curly locks and dropped them into a test tube, before submerging them in a clear liquid. He swirled it, then reached for a small bottle full of deep yellow solution. He gently added a few drops and watched as the liquid changed to a deep purple, concealing the hair. He hummed and replaced the test tube on a rack beside him. Reaching for his scissors again, he snipped another piece off and dropped it into a clean tube, the only other sound permeating the room being the erratic rhythm of fingers on keyboard. John stopped typing for a moment and leaned back into his chair, reading the screen in front of him. Glass clinked together in the kitchen. John reached for his cup of tea and sipped it. Just as he was about to touch the keyboard again, a knock sounded from the living room door. "Woop woop" Mrs Hudson trilled, stepping into the room.

"Morning" John greeted her pleasantly, looking up from his laptop. "How are you today?"

"Oh I'm fine. Hip is playing up a bit" She patted the offending limb as she entered the kitchen. Her shoulders dropped at the array of chemistry equipment strewn across the surfaces. "Oh, Sherlock! What a mess! Is that hair?" Sherlock nodded, not looking up. Mrs Hudson sighed, defeated, and grabbed a cloth from the sink. She held it up to Sherlock. "Is this one safe?" Glancing up, Sherlock nodded again and then returned to his experiments. The long suffering landlady began to wipe down the surfaces in the kitchen, popping on the radio as she did so. It was tuned, as always, to BBC Radio 4. As she began to gather up the empty mugs strewn around the kitchen and living room, the chimes for the localised 10 O'Clock News began. She turned up the volume a little before filling the sink.

"This is the BBC London News at 10 O'Clock. The headlines: MP's come under scrutiny after proposed pay rises, London's Mayor expresses condolences to the family of the latest oyster card bicycle fatality, TV Chef revealed to be victim of fraud, and our top story this morning: A second pair of hands has been discovered in Leicester Square"

Sherlock's head twitched slightly to the side as he paused in his experiment to listen to the radio over the sound of Mrs Hudson washing up.

"A second pair of hands has been discovered hanging from a tree in Leicester Square earlier this morning. The hands, like the ones discovered yesterday in a park in Hackney, were hung by wire to a branch. No bodies have been found for either. Our correspondent is on the scene." The voice switched genders.

"At about 5 O'Clock this morning, a local resident discovered the hands hanging from the tree in the centre of the square. As of yet, we do not know who they belong to. DNA tests are currently being undertaken at St Bartholomew's Hospital."

Mrs Hudson put a wet mug on the drying board. "Awful business that. What is the world coming to these days, mm?" John hummed an agreement from the sitting room as he turned away from his laptop.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock breathed out as he leaned away from his experiment.

"Not enough information to make a deduction. It's too adult for Lestrade though. He'll come running soon." John rolled his eyes and returned to his laptop. His fingers brushed the keypad as he navigated to his inbox to read his new emails. He binned the usual spam, lingering over an advert for a seedy looking prize draw to win £1000, before deleting it too. Coming to the end of the little emboldened list, he reached a sender of whom he didn't recognise. He opened it, expecting more spam, and read the first line. His mouth dropped open. He leaned in to read more intently.

_Hello John! How are you these days my friend? _

_Do you remember me? It's Lieutenant Arthur Pike from the 5th Regiment. I'm back from tour and I'm here for the next year. _

_I know I haven't kept in touch with you, but I think I have an excuse. I'm in London for a few months before moving back up to be closer to my parents. It would be excellent if we could meet and re-live a bit of the old times - blast from the past and all. I've got a bit less hair than you will remember and most likely a few more wrinkles. _

_I've seen you in the papers recently - teamed up with that detective Sherlock Holmes have you? I'm interested to see how you, an ex army doctor teamed up with a private detective! I'm full of questions. I'm sure your life has taken a rather drastic turn - I can imagine it's a lot of sitting around in front of laptops._

_I'll talk with you soon I'm sure,_

_Art._

John smiled at the short but meaningful words on the screen in front of him. He couldn't help but chuckle at the completely incorrect assumption about his detective life. He couldn't have been more wrong. Selecting the reply icon, he tapped out a message on the screen with a suggested date and his mobile number for easier communication, then pressed the lid shut on his laptop and stood, walking towards Sherlock and Mrs Hudson in the kitchen.

"I just got an email from one of my oldest and closest friends in the army. He's back in London - I'll admit I'm more used to seeing him in uniform than plain clothes. It's going to be odd meeting him."

Mrs Hudson turned away from the sink and smiled. "That's wonderful John! I'm sure you'll still get on like a house on fire." She placed the last mug on the draining board and pulled the plug from the sink. Drying her hands on a tea towel, she dropped it onto the kitchen side between the kettle and an empty glass beaker. "I'll be going now. I'll see you later boys!" John smiled at her as she walked away and back to her own flat downstairs. Sherlock had returned to his experiment and did not bid her goodbye. Nobody expected him to however.

Leaning against the kitchen surfaces, he watched the world's greatest Consulting Detective cut up strands of hair into little pieces and push them into test tubes.

"Any luck?" John asked.

"Yes." Sherlock replied, not looking up at John. "She's not who we have been told. I knew that already, but I've proved it." John waited for an explanation, but none came.

"Are you going to tell me?"

He tapped the microscope. "Pollen." He pointed to the test tube full of dark purple liquid. "Starch." He pointed to another full of a white precipitate. "Lipids. Pointing to a little beaker with purple liquid, he said "Protein." Gesturing at another tube with a red solution, he said 'Lignin, of course."

"Of course..." John sighed.

'There's also ash, rust, and soot. This woman is not a council worker in Elephant and Castle. She works on a farm in Essex."

John's eyebrows raised. "How do you know?"

"I just told you."

"No, Sherlock. You showed me some test tubes."

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "Pollen - more specifically, pollen from rapeseed plants. An unusually high density of ash and soot - She's been working with large desil engines. Traces of London Clay. Not usually seen in an office job, is it? Rust from old corrugated iron buildings. So, where is there rust and high amounts of rapeseed pollen? On a rape farm. We are still on the London Clay, so where is there a high density of rape farms grown on London Clay? Essex."

John shook his head. "Once again, your mind just baffles me, Sherlock." Sherlock smirked.

"As does yours to me." He picked up his phone and texted Lestrade his findings and instructions on whom to arrest, before getting up from the table and padding barefooted into the living room. He picked up his violin.

The rest of the day passed calmly onwards with little interruption. Having finished a case, Sherlock allowed his transport a small lunch with John of quiche and salad in front of the television, before returning to his violin. He played into the evening, John sitting companionably with him. John left later to meet with his girlfriend, and Sherlock continued to play late into the blackness of the winter night.

Morning came once again in 221B Baker Street, and a frost had settled in the night on the trees and grass, doors and pavement. A little was jostled off as the front door opened and John appeared, lugging a black rubbish bag to be dumped in the bins beside the townhouse. As he stepped off the last stair in his slippers, careful not to slip on the frost, he looked up at the grey sky. About to glance back down onto the road, he caught something in the corner of his eyes. He dropped the rubbish bag as he took in the sight. Stunned, pale and horrified, he dashed back into the flat, the rubbish forgotten on the steps.

"Sherlock!" He grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him out of his armchair and down the stairs.

"John, wha-" He hissed at the cold air that hit him as he was pulled into the chilly street. John pointed at the tree outside the flat, his hand trembling a little.

2 dismembered hands, hard, pale and frosty hung from the lowest branch of the tree growing in the square in the pavement. Dried, cold blood crusted the edges of the cuts just below the wrist. The nails and base of the fingers were blackened. Bloodied wire pushed through the middle of the hands held them together, which was then wrapped tightly around the branch. Frost had developed on the wire, the spikes forming icy white spires which looked sharp to the touch.

However this was not which had shocked Watson so much. Cut deeply into the hands, almost to the bone were the letters:

221B.

**So here we are! The first chapter in my case fic. I've got the storyline all planned out this time, so my updates will hopefully be faster. **

**I hope you enjoyed it, and please follow! I will update soon :)**

**Thank you! Reviews will make your christmas tree shine ever brighter.**


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